


Pride Before Fall

by crazywrite



Category: Norse Religion & Lore, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 02:18:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9471074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazywrite/pseuds/crazywrite
Summary: He was risking much to be here, to be in the place where he had plunged the worlds into chaos. But his curiosity got the better of him to attend his namesake's funeral.(Or, how many kennings can I put into a Marvel fanfiction?)





	

He was a masochist for coming here, for stepping into the place where he had committed his worst crimes. And yet, it was still home. He was placing a risky bet as he mingled through the crowd that had gathered for the second prince’s funeral.

  
With the hood drawn up to cover his tell-tale hair, he was yet another commoner of Asgard here to mourn the loss of the dark haired prince. Aside from the occasional glance his way as he shouldered through the crowd, most ignored his unnatural height and drawn hood. This was not the time to celebrate and gossip.

  
He paused as a group of women passed in front of him, their whispers badly hidden behind fans. They were talking about the supposedly dead prince and how it was rumored that he’d purposely let go and fallen into the Gap and how Valhalla would never accept a coward like him.

  
Biting the sharp retort back, the wanderer continued on his way towards the edge of the crowd. Somehow, he managed to elbow his way to the front, right behind the dais the royal family stood upon. It reminded him of another funeral he’d attended, similarly disguised. A smile wormed its way onto his scarred face, the sight of a squealing dwarf flying through the air clear in his mind’s eye.

  
The sight of the man he once called brother brought a strange feeling to the pit of his stomach. A part of him wanted to jump into his dear Oski’s arms and beg him to go journeying like old times. Another part of him wanted to grab that fucking spear and rip through the layer of scar tissue above his navel and watch the twice-cold blood drip down Gungnir’s shaft.

  
The sound of horns and drums brought him out of his reverie. On the dais, the royal family huddled together, the grief painfully evident even from behind. He traced over the well-worn designs on the hilt of the dagger at his side and wondered if any of them remembered how they’d keened and wailed the last time the Aesir were gathered for the death of another.

  
As the pomp and circumstance began, he mused of _him_. The first god they had laid to rest. His face serene in death, hand clasped with his wife’s who had died of a broken heart. The whole of Asgard had stopped to watch the massive ship go up in flames and the sounds of mourning had lasted long into the night.

  
Now, it seemed the only people who truly weeped were the royal family.

  
He watched as they placed items into the boat; a boat that barely looked like it could fit someone of his height. Each of the family took their time placing gifts into the boat. Frija placed a leather-bound book amongst the dark silk, stroking its spine reverently. Einridi next, his parting gift a bandolier of throwing knives and a emerald cloak of the softest wool. And finally, Grimnir presented his final gift.

  
How strange, he thought, how composed the Alfodr was. When his lovely son died, he could barely stand and leaned heavily against Gungnir. Now, he showed no emotion aside from an unnatural tightness in his shoulders.

  
Grimnir’s gift was the boy’s helmet. Gold and gaudy, it glimmered in the torchlight as it was placed on the longship and its long horns rose from the bed of the longship. He had never met the second prince but tears sprang to his eyes at the thought of a forgotten prince, left to wither in the shadow of the other.

  
How familiar the brothers were to the ones that preceded them. They had forgotten golden boy’s brother, most likely, the memory of his soft-footed presence gone as they wiped their blades of his blood. He blinked as the sound of a mourning song began, wrenching him from his thoughts. It was the same one as before. Aesir were such traditionalists.

  
Eventually, the woman’s warbling cry died on the air and the courtyard grew silent. Something tracked down his cheek, tears. He bit back a snort.

  
He hadn’t cried for Asgard’s golden one but here he was, crying over the dark haired prince.

  
With one last caress of the longship’s dragon head, Farmatyr pushed the ship into the lake. Frige leaned on her husband’s shoulder, tears glinting from her pale cheeks. She hadn’t even been at the previous funeral, the loss of her first and favorite son too much to bear. He’d learned much later that she had not risen from her bed for months.

  
As the small ship bobbed on the water, Rym turned away, his usual smile replaced by a grim line. Tears gathered in his eyes but they never fell. Warriors in Asgard were meant to be strong and emotionless and he could see every sinew tense in Hardhugadr’s body. He looked up then and they met eyes.

  
What did he see, the wanderer wondered. Did he recognize his favorite uncle, the one that had been his companion for many an adventure? Or did he just see another commoner gathered to honor his brother’s (supposed) death?

  
The answer came when a raven-haired valkyrja grasped his arm and Bjorn turned away. She was familiar—he could almost feel her supple curves and long blonde hair underneath his fingertips—but the glamor that resided over them changed her inexplicably from the grain goddess with the open smile to a guarded warrior.

  
He wanted to rage and burn this entire fucking sham to the goddamn ground. He wanted to shake Harbard’s shoulders and scream _do you know me? Do you remember the promise to pour a cup for me every time a cup is poured for you?_

  
Even in his mind, he knew the answer. Hangatyr would only blink his one cerulean eye, the memories buried deep underneath an enchantment even the lovely Vanadis could not tamper with.

  
The longboat, which had been edging closer to the lip of the waterfall, finally fell. The dragon’s painted eyes seem to flash in panic before it fell deep into the chasm below. The crowd breathed a sigh of relief and began to disperse but the hooded stranger stayed.

  
He took a deep breath, the emotions roiling through his chest. Ever since that first lick of flame had touched the Fair One’s body, Asgard had been changed, molded into a caricature painted by an idealistic man.

  
He finally turned away, knowing damn well that this had been in vain. No one recognized him, no one remembered his crimes. The one he’d slain had the last laugh, even in death. Asgard was how he wanted, how he’d envisioned the Realm Eternal.

  
_The Realm Eternal_. Hah! They may be Aesir but they were just as killable as any mortal.

He should know; he had guided that dart into Baldr's lovely white neck.

  
As the tall red-head stood on the edge of a home he barely recognized, he realized that it had been all a show. A way to placate the masses, to assure them that the rumors that swirled about the jagged edge of the Bridge and what had transpired there.

  
The one that bore his name was far from dead.

  
But for how long?

**Author's Note:**

> Here are some of the kennings I used:
> 
> Oski: God of Wishes  
> Grimnir: Grim One  
> Alfodr: Old Norse for "Allfather"  
> Farmatyr: God of Burdens  
> Harbard: Gray Beard
> 
> Einridi: The one who rules alone  
> Rym: Noise  
> Hardhugadr: Strong spirit  
> Bjorn: Bear
> 
> Frigg didn't have any kennings so I used her name in Old High German (Frija) and Old English (Frige)


End file.
